


Bid (if you dare)

by zuzallove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, BAMF Harry Potter, Charity Auctions, Duelling, Harry is a Little Shit, M/M, Rating: NC17, my curious mix of angst and humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzallove/pseuds/zuzallove
Summary: The Ministry decides to hold a charity auction to collect money for the victims of the war. The items up for bid? Dates. Dates with Ministry employees. The catch? You have to win a duel before claiming your prize.Draco Malfoy is up for bid.Harry Potter is /not/ okay with that.“Now, I know what you’re all thinking: Mr Malfoy? Single? How is that possible?”Because I’m the stupidest creature that ever lived, Harry mentally replied, frantically thinking of excuses to drag Draco away and find somewhere quiet to talk.“And yet, ladies and gentlemen, here he is, and up for grabs!”Harry growled, low in his throat. Draco was most definitely not up for grabs. If anyone grabbed, there would be problems.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 64
Kudos: 884





	Bid (if you dare)

_Friday, April 30 th , 2004 _

_As the annual May 2nd celebrations rapidly approach, the Ministry of Magic invites all witches and wizards to their charity gala, to be held on Saturday, May 1 st at the Ministry Great Hall. The evening – a spokeswizard told the Daily Prophet – will consist entirely of games, auctions and friendly duels. The purpose? To collect Galleons and Knuts and devolve the entirety of the proceeds to the Fund for War Victims and Widows. _

_“Previous endeavours have yielded less than satisfactory results,” the spokeswizard stated. “We have come to this decision based on the understanding that, after so much pain and strife, witches and wizards desire entertainment. Now, we promise entertainment, trust me, I’m on the organising committee – all we need is your attendance and cooperation. Remember: these victims deserve your help.”_

_The Fund for War Victims and Widows is a non-profit organisation founded and co-chaired by Ms Hermione Granger, heroine of the war, and current director of the Magical Law Enforcement Department. In Ms Granger’s words, “Now that the war is won, it is of paramount importance to ensure that no one is left behind, or alone. The heavy losses sustained by our community are a wound that will never fully heal, so, the least we could do is stand by these people who are still in mourning and need help to get by. The worst thing we could do, right now, would be to let ourselves forget.”_

_And forget we haven’t. While the Ministry pushes forward with their intention of having a commemorative monument dedicated to the Fallen at Hogwarts, the community, as it has for the past six years, comes together during this difficult time of sombre remembrance and dignified mourning._

_While detailed plans for the evening at the Ministry are shrouded in mystery, it has repeatedly been asserted that the gala will be one not to miss: high-profile officials, celebrities and war-heroes have already RSVP’d, and it is even rumoured that the Chosen One, Harry Potter, may in fact make an appearance. The Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is also confirmed as a guest, and so are Chief Auror and war-hero Ronald Weasley and prominent socialite and philanthropist Blaise Zabini._

_Tickets are for sale via owl, address stated below._

“How long have they been in there?”

“I don’t know. An hour. Hour and a half. What difference does it make?”

Beryl continued to file her nails without even blinking at the deafening shouts coming from the other side of the Chief Auror’s office. The Junior Auror, who in theory had an appointment with said Chief Auror half an hour ago, was not similarly unconcerned.

“Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, intervene?”

Beryl rolled her eyes. “You have no idea how often those three get into a shouting match. Best to leave it alone, love.”

The Auror, Peter Jones, nodded, though he did not seem particularly relieved.

“This is bullshit!” a shout came through from the door.

“Harry, seriously,” a female voice hissed back. Seconds later, the sounds came more muffled than before; they had probably realised it was best to cast a Muffliato. Beryl rolled her eyes again.

“Do we know what… the issue is?” Jones inquired timidly. Since they were there, might as well have a chat about it. Who knew, maybe he could get some juicy bits of gossip to report to the rest of the office, and maybe Madge would even listen to him, instead of ignoring him as usual.

“Oh, isn’t is obvious?” Beryl, the secretary, drawled, clearly uninterested. “The gala. Auror Potter doesn’t want to participate. Ms Granger is telling him he’s an insensitive sod who doesn’t care about collecting money for those who needs it, and that he should support her causes as well as her entire organisation or he has no business calling himself her friend. Chief Auror is caught in the middle, and, as usual, doesn’t really have a say in the matter.”

“Oh,” Jones replied, nodding as if that made all the sense in the world. “How do you see it ending?”

She laughed as if she had never hard anything funnier, and it was a mean laugh, almost mocking. “It will end as it always ends! Since when do men win arguments?”

As if fate itself wanted to prove her right, the door slammed open a second later, and out the Chosen One came, looking sulky and defeated.

“Beryl,” he immediately said, ignoring the Junior Auror. “Would you mind sending a memo down to the organising committee for the gala?”

“Certainly, Auror Potter,” she all but chirped back, blinking innocently and feigning ignorance at what the content of the message would be. “And what shall I write, Sir?”

It was said with gritted teeth, and almost as an insult, but it was said nonetheless. “Tell them… Harry Potter will attend their stupid, fucking gala.”

“Harry!” a female voice – Granger – barked out from inside the office. Potter closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then opened them again with the expression of a man who is having their teeth extracted without a Pain-Dulling Potion.

“Please, Beryl, would you be so kind as to say to whomever it may concern that I will happily take part in the festivities organised to collect money for the War Fund? In whatever capacity they desire me to?”

“Bloody hell, that sounded Victorian,” the other male voice from inside the office commented, only to be promptly shushed by the female voice.

“Why, of course, Auror Potter,” Beryl beamed. “Will that be all?”

“Yeah,” Potter shot back, his right hand twitching as if it wanted to reach for his wand. “That’s all, thank you.” Then, with a last dirty look towards the Chief Auror’s door office, he turned around and walked away, leaving Jones faintly disconcerted and Beryl more than a little amused.

“Chief Weasley,” she called out a second later, making Jones jump. “Junior Auror Jones for you, Sir.”

A kissing sound came from the office, and one moment later Hermione Granger emerged, looking as smug as a woman who had just won a great battle. Well, Auror Jones supposed, she had.

“Sorry about that,” she politely apologised, smiling sweetly at the both of them. “He will see you now, Mr Jones.”

***

“This is utter, utter bullshit.” Harry threw the Quaffle with a force that was probably capable of dislocating a shoulder. Draco winced in sympathy, catching it with the arm that wasn’t holding the broomstick.

“I think it’s brilliant,” he replied after a moment, scoring a goal. “People these days are only interested in spending money for absolute necessities or absolute frivolities. This falls into the latter category.”

“Frivolities I’m fine with. But selling dates? Come on.”

They silently agreed to fly in circles for a bit, side by side, letting the wind ruffle their hair, the Quaffle forgotten on the pitch. It still boggled Harry’s mind that Malfoy Manor had a Quidditch Pitch, of all things, but he wasn’t about to complain. His Sunday Quidditch sessions with Draco had been a great help in last two years. Life as a hero wasn’t nearly as relaxing as he would have thought, and the Ministry was always after him for something: money, appearances, statements, help.

He wanted to help. Truly. He just didn’t enjoy their way of helping.

“It’s not really a date,” Draco shrugged, his wrists delicately manoeuvring the broom into a sharp turn. “You just have to spend an afternoon with a bloke or a girl, have dinner with them, maybe a dance or too, and then everyone gets home and the Fund’s purse is considerably fatter. Sounds like an honest bargain to me. And an excellent way of shaking things up a bit, instead of going door to door,” he added, rolling his eyes. Hermione had tried to recruit them both for door-to-doors, but they had always refused with increasingly less credible excuses.

“It’s a meat market,” Harry growled back. “I might not be up for sale, but it doesn’t mean I have to like seeing my colleagues paraded around and prodded like cattle at a fair. And by rich Pureblood ladies who wants to get their hands on them firm arses, to add insult to injury.”

“Hey, I’m a Pureblood, and I’m going up for the auction!” Draco protested, skidding to a halt in front of the Quaffle and collecting it again.

“Yeah, but you’re an idiot when it comes to this stuff,” Harry snorted. “You gave away, what? Half your fortune already to the War Fund?”

Draco quieted down after that. He tossed Harry the Quaffle and didn’t offer to release a Snitch, which is what they usually did at this stage. Wordlessly, he planed down and landed softly on the grass, immediately beginning to remove his gloves. From what Harry could tell, he wasn’t offended – after two years of their unlikely friendship slash work proximity associateship he could tell when Draco was offended, or angry, or pissed. Based on previous reactions, he was being morose again.

“Not all of us can afford not to care about our public image.”

“Not this again,” Harry whined.

“I’m just saying,” Draco sniffed, feigning disinterest at the topic. Probably for the sake of preventing an argument, Harry thought. “If the people who are actually involved in this are up for it, why should you tell them what’s right and what’s wrong?”

Harry was never one to shut up in front of unfailing logic, but even he had his limits. What else was there to say, after all?

“Besides,” Draco continued. “They only asked you to participate as a dueller. If said rich ladies and gentleman want to ensure their date is not snatched away, they’ll have to go through you. Don’t you like the idea of putting their bums on the ground and let your wand speak for you?”

Harry was then assaulted by a mental image of a rich Pureblood type, dressed in silks and velvet, raising their posh hands and buying a date with Draco, only to find out that they have to duel Harry Potter to actually get it. In his mind, he was already compiling a strategy and choosing the Charms he wanted to use. He probably wouldn’t get away with most of them, but there were a few that wouldn’t do much damage, but would certainly put the posh gits in their places.

Hard to grope a man when your hands were covered in thorny growths, for example.

He smiled.

***

The night of the gala, Harry had to at least pretend to put up a fight. And so he fought. He fought Hermione when she came to Grimmauld Place at the appointed time to force him into his gala robes, he fought her when she tried to brush his hair and all but growled at Kreacher as he enthusiastically listed colognes he could wear for the night. But after much fighting, he arrived at the gala annoyingly punctual and irritatingly presentable. He kept trying to untie his ridiculous cravat a little, but Hermione’s eyes always found him from across the room and scolded his fingers into stillness.

“Mr Potter, I must say, you look very dashing tonight.” Harry smiled and nodded at the witch – one of the most prominent donors, came into a huge amount of money recently, Half-blood, unsympathetic towards Purebloods. His mind immediately categorised her as a non-threat, since she probably wasn’t interested in buying a date with a Pureblood.

It was troubling, to him, how much he was concerned about the whole ordeal. He found that the idea of Ron going on a date with a posh git didn’t bother him so much, especially considering that Hermione was enthusiastically on board. His colleagues… they could handle themselves, and as Draco had said, it was only for show. One dinner and then everyone was either richer or happier.

No, it was the idea of Draco with a nameless, faceless man or woman trying to get under his robes that he found the most irritating. And the huge stage in the middle of the Hall didn’t help matters. It looked like they were about to sell Greek antiquities, and the presenter, a cheerful wizard from the Department of Magical Equipment Control, seemed to be having the time of his life already.

“I’m telling you,” he roared to his audience, gesticulating wildly and splashing wine everywhere. His small group of rich wizards in fancy robes and silken bowties listened to him avidly. “If it’s a good date you want, take Molesley, here, my colleague: I guarantee, he won’t disappoint!” As their rumbustious laughter filled Harry’s ears and Molesley assured them that yes, he was very much into it, Harry downed his glass of Firewhiskey and went in search of another, trying to ignore the sound of his own teeth grinding.

Instead of more alcohol, he found Draco.

“Good Merlin, you look like you’re being tortured.”

Blaise Zabini, who seemed to have arrived with him – and who, Harry knew, was going to donate a shitload of money that night – ignored Harry and after whispering something into Draco’s ear, disappeared into the crowd. Harry followed him with his eyes for a bit. He could be wrong, but he was pretty sure he had whispered “I’ll leave you to your boyfriend, then.”

Harry shrugged and asked the bartender for another shot. Without saying a word, he paid for both their drinks and led them away from the noise.

“I’m not cut out for this shit,” Harry complained the minute they were alone. “I’m really not.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, the poor saviour of the wizarding world doesn’t like attention,” Draco mocked him, rolling his eyes. “What’s so terrible about it?”

“These people. They all want to _chat_ with me.”

“I swear, all those articles about you and not one of those so-called journalists has ever captured your essence: Harry Potter, the unsociable misanthrope.”

Harry had no idea what a misanthrope was, but he didn’t ask for clarification.

“I like people,” he protested. “I just don’t like _these_ people.”

Draco smiled enigmatically and took a sip of his red wine. They stayed clear of the main event, walking slowly, their arms brushing against each other.

The Ministry had really gone all out on this event, Harry noticed. He’d been in that room before, once of twice, but never when it was so richly decorated. Garlands of bright coloured flowers hanged from the ceiling, and ice sculptures were exposed all over the room. The food was provided by House-Elves that went around holding huge trays of delicious, morsel-sized appetizers, just at the right height for a man to reach. In a corner, a couple of violins and a cello were enchanted to play itself, and they provided a nice background of soft music.

Harry walked and chatted with Draco by his side, trying to avoid the more annoying guests and failing to miss how nice Draco looked.

Another annoying thing was, everyone else’s fancy clothes were ridiculous to him, his included. He saw long, flowing robes in deep green and intricate embroidery and all he could do was scoff. But Draco…

Draco wore those kinds of robes like he had just taken the first thing he had in his wardrobe. Harry supposed that those robes were invented for people like him, who could wear them effortlessly, only adding to his figure, not creating a false appearance of elegance.

The robes didn’t look ridiculous on him because he was born elegant already. Instead of covering that up, it only made him more appealing.

_Huh? Appealing? Where did that come from?_

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, seemingly having Apparated in front of them out of thin air. “I thought I told you to mingle. Hi, Draco.”

Draco kissed her cheek and she smiled at him, letting her eyes roaming approvingly over his properly-attired body and then immediately adjusting Harry’s cravat. Which was askew. Again. 

“Why, Granger, don’t we look ravishing tonight.”

“Oh, hush, you,” Hermione giggled, swatting his arm playfully. “I could count on you, though. Can you please make sure he doesn’t hide in a corner staring menacingly at the donors?”

Draco bowed down his head, ignoring Harry’s spluttering, and grabbed her hand to kiss it. “Anything for the Director of Magical Law Enforcement,” he answered smoothly. “Pity you’re not up for auction tonight.”

“Flattery won’t get you any favours within my department, Mr Malfoy. Harry, have you seen Ron?”

Harry shrugged. “I think he was talking to the old bloke with a diamond encrusted in his hat.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

One second later, Ron appeared around the corner, involved, _indeed_ , in what looked like a painfully boring conversation with an old wizard who had, _indeed_ , a diamond encrusted in his hat. She had the good grace of looking a bit taken aback.

“Oh, I see.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry protested, turning to look at Draco, who conspiratorially leaned towards him. “You’re filthy rich, yet you don’t feel the need to bejewel your clothes or to make a show out of eating caviar. How come?”

“Well, that’s true,” Draco agreed. “But then again, you’ve never seen me bathing in my solid gold bathtub.”

While they laughed like children, and Hermione fought to hide a smile, Ron managed to districate himself from the rich old bloke, and made his way towards them with a hint of desperation in his eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he said, stealing Harry’s Firewhiskey and taking a generous sip. “These people.”

“Hah!” Harry exclaimed, throwing a triumphant fist in the air and ignoring Hermione’s eye roll. “See? I’m not the only one.”

Hermione glanced nervously towards the stage, where, Harry noticed, people where starting to congregate. “I think it’s starting,” she said.

Sighing, Harry couldn’t help but agree. Oh, well, the sooner it began, the sooner it would be over.

Or so he thought.

***

One hour later, Harry began to think this would never end.

It followed a very precise pattern: the presenter, Larry Corbyn, who had introduced himself as _Mr Larry_ for the evening, called a wizard or a witch on the stage. Then, he proceeded to tell the audience who they were, what they did for a living within the Ministry and their marital status. Every time he mentioned someone was single the audience erupted in cat-calls and whistles, and Harry had to repress a snarl. Then, he highlighted their physical qualities, made a few jokes about their eagerness to finally go on a date – regardless of whether they were single or not – and then he started the bidding. Unsurprisingly to anyone but Harry, it was going over pretty well. The audience was growing tipsier and tipsier and money was being donated generously, even going so far as 19 Galleons for the pretty witch who worked in the Department of Mysteries. People seemed to be enjoying the attention, too.

After the bidding was done, Mr Larry walked to a crystal bowl in the middle of the stage, a bowl containing the names of the duelling volunteers, enchanted to never yield the same name twice. He put up a bit of a show in extracting the name, and then the one who had won the bid – the posh gits – walked on the stage and pretended to fight the dueller. ‘Pretended’ being the key word.

Harry rolled his eyes as the duellers failed to cast simple Protegos, or as they stood perfectly still while the opponent fumbled their wands or missed an enchantment. The Ministry-appointed duellers were very obviously letting everyone win, so that they could go home with their prize. Kingsley, from a corner, was also clenching his teeth, obviously feeling that this display was demeaning. It was painful to watch experienced Aurors pretending to be overwhelmed by a Rictusempra or by an extremely weak Expelliarmus. 

Only one dueller had ‘succeeded’, but it was only because the bidder was so drunk that he fell off the stage, losing by default. Embarrassing. The whole spectacle was embarrassing. Harry was glad for the donations, sure, but he had no intention of holding back that much _himself_.

“Merlin, I hope I get to duel the diamond-hat bloke,” he whispered to Hermione. She threw him a chastising look, but she smiled a bit.

“Ahh, Mister Jangles, congratulations for your victory! You can now come and claim your prize.”

The last posh git who had ‘defeated’ what Harry knew to be a very skilled dueller from the Department of Broom Regulations trotted towards the poor victim, a witch from the Ghouls Division. She sportily accepted his kiss on her cheek and took his hand as they both walked down the stage, already discussing their future date. At least the girl didn’t seem to mind that much.

“And now, for our next bid, will Draco Malfoy please join me on stage?”

A loud gasp emerged from the crowd, as Draco climbed the stage, looking self-assured and relaxed. Nobody knew who would be up for sale beforehand, but they must have hoped Draco would be, given the reaction of the audience.

And Harry knew, Draco was pretty popular these days. Reformed Death-Eater turned philanthropist, giving away his fortune to help the less fortunate and the victims of the war, rich as fuck, and with a long, lean body that inspired the dirtiest of fantasies.

_And where the hell did that come from?!_

Seeing Draco on that stage, ready to be sold like a prize cow, and the hungry glares of some members of the audience, changed something. He wasn’t sure what, but the atmosphere had gone from bad to downright ugly.

Panicking, Harry realised he was not okay with this. Not okay at all. Draco deserved a date who wanted him for more than his body or his money, someone who understood his wit, his wicked sense of humour, his genuine passion for helping others, his true remorse for the events of the war, his love for Quidditch, his…

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

_Oh, fuck._

Now? Of all moments, he had to realise this now?

_Fucking hell shit bugger fuck._

“Now, I know what you’re all thinking: Mr Malfoy? Single? How is that possible?” 

_Because I’m the stupidest creature that ever lived_ , Harry mentally replied, frantically thinking of excuses to drag Draco away and find somewhere quiet to _talk_.

“And yet, ladies and gentlemen, here he is, and up for grabs!”

Harry growled, low in his throat. Draco was most definitely not up for grabs. If anyone grabbed, there would be problems.

He could almost hear the blood pumping through his veins as Mr Larry praised Draco’s piercing eyes and imposing figures, and when he saw a man winking towards Draco, his purse of galleons already in hand, Harry knew he was in real trouble.

“Shall we start the bidding at one galleon?”

“Two!” the man with the purse yelled from the crowd almost immediately.

“Three!” a lady cried in response, waving towards Draco.

“Every galleon, sickle and knut I possess and then some,” Harry desperately wanted to reply, but couldn’t. Duellers were not allowed to bid.

“Harry, is everything okay?” Ron asked, having noticed his visible distress. 

“I…” Harry muttered, unable to take his eyes off the proceedings. Draco was now up to eleven galleons, yet the auction was clearly nowhere near over. He was going to sell at an amazing price, to some fancy lady or bloke, and he could only watch as it happened.

They were going to have dinner together.

They were going to hold hands in front of everyone.

If anyone kissed his cheek, Harry would Stun them.

No, he couldn’t. Fuck. Fourteen galleons.

“Harry, you look sick, are you sure you’re okay?” Hermione came over and waved a hand in front of his face, trying to snap him out of it, whatever it was. Harry nodded.

“I’m fine, it’s just…”

“Sold!” Harry stopped breathing. “For eighteen galleons, to Mr Algernon Archibald!” Harry snapped his head towards the winner, and almost fainted. An old bloke. Clearly made of money. Clearly enthusiastic at the idea of wining and dining a fit piece of arse like Draco. Clearly salivating at the prospect. A vein in Harry’s head began to pulse, and even Hermione seemed taken aback by the appearance of the man who had won a date with Draco. Draco, who, in the last two years, had wormed his way into his friends’ heart as well as his, redeeming himself from the past, working as a potioneer in the Auror’s Department and making friends with everyone. Draco, who just last month had brought in lunch for everyone, just because he felt like it. Draco, who, to everyone’s surprise, including perhaps himself, had turned out to be a good man.

And this old fart had a claim on him now. Sure, it was only for show. But there was no mistaking the glimmer in Mr Archibald’s eyes. He intended to make the most of it, Harry was sure.

And so was Draco, apparently, since he was eyeing the man with something akin to worry in his pale grey eyes. And then, just as Harry was about to break protocol and intervene, Mr Larry spoke again.

“Now, Mr Archibald, let’s see who you’ll have to face before claiming your prize!”

The duel. Harry had forgotten all about it. Maybe it would be a decent dueller, someone who didn’t stand down just because common courtesy demanded it. Maybe he would be someone who cared about Draco. Maybe he…

“Harry Potter!”

Oh.

The crowd cheered loudly, having waited long enough to see in what capacity the Boy Who Lived would be involved in the event. Some even looked a bit disappointed, because being a dueller meant he wouldn’t be up for sale. But a duel with Harry Potter was still quite the spectacle, and excited whispers were shared all over the room. However, a few choice people had the good sense of looking worried, because, Harry knew, the smirk that appeared on his face was nothing short of ominous.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered furiously, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly. “You have to let him win.”

“Yeah, seriously, mate,” Ron agreed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go easy on him, okay?”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, already taking out his wand. “I would never hurt him.”

Neither of them looked very reassured, but they had to let him go as Mr Larry beckoned him on stage. Mr Archibald walked in from the other side, divesting himself of the upper strata of his robes and taking out a long wand with a black pearl on the handle.

 _Git_.

“Now, Mr Potter, please, go easy on poor Mr Archibald here,” Mr Larry chuckled, earning a laughter from the audience. “We all know what you’re capable of, but surely, Mr Malfoy will surely understand if you choose to be merciful tonight!”

Harry ignored Mr Larry, ignored Mr Archibald, who was cracking his fingers and appeared to be entirely unconcerned, ignored the warning looks of Hermione and Ron and the confused look of Kingsley, who had clearly understood that something was off, but probably couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He looked at Draco, who had also caught on with what was happening. When he crossed eyes with Harry, his own widened slightly. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, telling Harry no, that it was okay, that he didn’t have to do anything. Harry returned his gaze with an expressionless face. He knew what he had to do.

“Now, duellers, take centre stage, here, and… bow. Very well. Two steps back, please. And one, two, three…”

Harry counted his steps methodically, reaching nine and preparing to turn back. His ears were ringing. His entire body was poised for a fight. His wand-hand was ready and itching to go. And then, just before Mr Larry said ten, opening the duel, he felt a movement of air that usually preceded a spell. Fortunately, his training kicked in just at the right time, and he ducked and pulled up a Protego all at the same time. He turned around sharply: Mr Larry was gasping, looking first at Harry and then at Archibald. Archibald himself looked pleased, if slightly disappointed that his spell, whatever it was, had missed.

“I say, this is a bit irregular!” Mr Larry weakly protested, ignoring the mounting boos of the crowd and the look of shock on Draco’s face. “Mr Archibald, I’m afraid I hadn’t quite said ten yet…”

“Ten,” Harry finished for him, and then let go.

If it was a spell, Harry didn’t know it. All he knew is that his frustration, his pent-up resentment towards the entire situation and that unnamed, recently discovered sensation regarding Draco, it all converged towards the tip of his wand, and shot out everything he was feeling.

Archibald got thrown back by the magical force of at least two Stunning Spells, and it was only because Harry was a professional and knew what he was doing that he didn’t get seriously hurt. He bounced back against the wall and fell off the stage, where there was no great rush to go and help him. When he staggered back on his feet, uncertain, it was amidst general silence and shock. And then he promptly vomited on a rich lady’s shoes.

“Eek!” she shouted, Charming her shoes clean two or three times, just to be sure.

Everyone turned to look at Harry.

“Oops,” he had the gall to say.

***

All things considered, Harry had no regrets.

Sure, Hermione had given him a dressing down to remember, and sure, Kingsley was decisively less than pleased, and he would probably get a suspension or something like that, but all in all, it was worth it.

Archibald had been taken to Saint Mungo’s, just to be safe, but he was fine. That is, no lasting damage was inflicted upon him. At some point, he would stop puking, and his hands would stop their incessant trembling. Harry had been forced into a public apology, to which he submitted without resistance, not wishing to aggravate his position any further. The part of it that well and truly bothered him was Draco’s face.

Draco was not pleased.

He didn’t look displeased, either. He just looked… perplexed. He had made his apologies to Mr Archibald for their missed dinner, and then had vanished without saying goodbye to anyone. Harry had tried to follow him, but since in that moment Hermione was promising him retaliation and vengeance, he had decided to stay put. Ron had looked a bit amused, if he had to be honest, and he was sure that in spite of their protests, _very loud_ protests, they would have done the same.

Well, maybe minus the brutality, but that was a detail.

The problem remained, though. Was Draco angry with him? Was he pissed? Was he indifferent?

Harry paced back and forth in his living room, incapable of going to bed despite the fact that it was almost one in the morning. There was only one thing he could do: he could ask Draco directly. He couldn’t well Floo over at this time of night, but he could always write a letter, and then he would get his answer first thing in the morning. Sighing, he sat at the desk and took a piece of parchment. Just as he licked the tip of his quill, ready to begin, Kreacher opened the door.

“Master Harry,” he greeted him, making him jump. “You have a visitor.”

“Oh?” Harry said. He was in no mood for another shouting match, and was just ready to say as much when Kreacher opened the door fully and he saw who the visitor was.

“Draco!” He jumped to his feet immediately. Draco looked… exactly like he had looked a few hours ago. Well-dressed, elegant, and gorgeous.

And perplexed.

“Thank you, Kreacher, you may retire for the night,” he instructed the House Elf, who nodded and popped away with a _crack_.

“You know, we’ve been friends for well over two years, now, and I’ve never seen where you live,” Draco started, walking around the room as if there wasn’t a huge fucking elephant in it. “Well, of course, I know the place. Aunt Walburga always threw the worst family reunions of the world. It’s almost unrecognisable, though.”

“Yeah, took a lot of work to get the spookiness out,” Harry interjected brusquely. “Draco, listen…”

“You see, spookiness is what my family does. It’s what they’ve always done. And part of that spookiness is being able to tell what people want, you know? If you know their desires, you can control them, so to speak.”

“Huh-huh,” Harry nodded, trying to see the point of the whole conversation and utterly failing.

“I pride myself in being able to know what people around me want,” Draco continued, still pacing back and forth, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “Not because I want to exploit them, but because I’ve been told I can be a difficult sort of friend to have. And if I know what they want, I know what I can give them. I want to know how to make them happy, if it’s within my power. Now, Hermione…”

He sighed, looking out the window into the desolate, empty Grimmauld Square. “Hermione wants to feel appreciated. I can give her that. It’s not like I don’t appreciate her, it’s just about showing it. Ronald wants to feel accepted. And once again, it’s not exactly hardship. But you…”

Harry gulped convulsively, staring at him and hating the fact that he couldn’t see his eyes. As if he had heard his thoughts, Draco turned around and fixed him with a perplexed glare that Harry couldn’t explain, and also couldn’t stop returning.

“I thought all you wanted was casual friendship. A mate. Someone to play Quidditch with. And, of course, I suspected you might have enjoyed the idea of being friends with someone who had caused you so much grief in the past. It all changed the moment you saw me as something salvageable. Because with a saviour complex as big as yours, I must have been like a delicious, low-hanging fruit, too tempting not to take.”

“Now, hang on a moment…” Harry growled, stalking towards him. Draco stopped him raising a hand.

“I said that that was my first impression,” he murmured. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

“So you only became my friend because you wanted to appeal to my saviour complex?” Harry snorted. He had never, ever tried to save Draco. It was one of his biggest regrets, in fact, and it wasn’t pleasant to have it thrown in his face when it wasn’t even true. When he and Draco started to become friends, Harry had it easy, and he had known it. The worst was already behind them; Draco had fought his demons already. There was nothing he could have done to help him, and so he hadn’t even tried.

“Of course not,” Draco snarled, his eyes turning to ice. “I became your friend because, ever since I was eleven years-old, it was what I wanted.”

“For different reasons,” Harry retorted.

“Maybe? Who knows. Who cares. I was intrigued by you on the train, in Madame Malkin’s shop, and I was intrigued by you when you were an Auror knocking at my door for a Healing Potion. This isn’t about what I want. This is about what you want.”

It was hard to lie at a time like this. It could have been anything, the hour of the night, the fact that they were alone, or the fact that, just as before, Draco still didn’t look angry. He looked confused, and interested, and like he cared. Harry took a deep breath to steady himself.

“Why would you think friendship is not all I want from you?” he asked, feigning a tranquillity he did not possess. He felt like he was at work, negotiating with a criminal, trying to minimise the damage and exposing as little vulnerability as possible. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

“Because,” Draco sighed, and finally took a step towards him, stopping only one foot apart. He tilted his head, like Harry was a puzzle he just couldn’t figure out. “When that man bought a date with me, I looked at you. And yes, I knew of your disdain for the entire event, I knew you disapproved, but you didn’t look disapproving. You looked _murderous_. And I have no idea why.”

Harry tore his eyes aware, uncomfortable and growing more so by the minute. He had no other choice but to stall.

“Did you see him?” he whispered. “He looked like he wanted your head exposed above a fireplace.”

“Yes, and that bothered everyone, me included, but no one to the point of almost killing a bloke.”

Harry groaned. “Please,” he scoffed. “He was barely hurt.”

“Harry.”

 _Fuck_. He had used his first name. Now, all he had to do was play it off as a joke, come up with a clever lie, anything but the truth. “I want you.”

_Fuck._

_FUCK._

“You… want me?”

“Yeah, you know…” He stared at his feet, still unable to believe that he had said the stupid thing. Bloody ridiculous. He never did learn, did he? “Whole thing. Dating, kissing, sex… that.”

Draco blinked. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“And why not?” Harry raised his chin defiantly. “It’s not like I’m the first to notice how fit you are, you know. And it’s not like we haven’t grown really close these past two years. It’s not like I still feel like I did when we were in school together.” If there was something he wasn’t going to stand for, it would be Draco belittling himself. He had spent two years talking him out of doing it, and he had no more patience for it.

“Because!” Draco sputtered, throwing his hands in the air. “Because I still am a former Death Eater! Because, I don’t know, think of the press! Because…”

Harry interrupted his rant and took his hand. Draco snapped his mouth shut, and looked at their joined hands as if the sight was hurting him. To Harry’s horror, he could hear his breath becoming more and more ragged.

“You know none of that shit matters,” he murmured softly, trying to catch his eyes. “Only one thing matters right now. And it’s what you want.”

“I…” Draco began, but his voice broke. “I’ve never even considered it…”

“Please,” Harry begged. “Consider it now.”

“I don’t like this,” Draco muttered. “Being caught unawares. I like planning things. I like foreseeing outcomes. I feel like a child caught stealing Cauldron Cakes.”

Harry barked out a laughter, and Draco smiled too, if a little reluctantly.

“Draco, look at me,” Harry said after the laughter had died out. Since Draco wasn’t responding, he delicately took his chin with one hand and rose his face to eye-level. “What do you want?”

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Oh, fuck it.”

The kiss started out gently, reverently, like they both couldn’t believe how precious the moment was. Harry let his lips slide over Draco’s in a slow drag, testing how soft they were, how pliant and welcome under his own. His hand went to Draco’s cheek and remained there, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone over and over in a soothing pattern. His other hand went to caress silky strands of pale blond hair. Draco’s hands went to Harry’s waist, and clutched him hard, just as the kiss began to deepen. With a sigh, Harry opened his mouth and let Draco’s tongue in. Again, Harry didn’t know whose fault it was, the setting, the situation, Draco’s hair between his fingers, his soft skin as warm and available as it was. He felt dizzy as the kiss took an almost violent turn, and before he knew what was happening, his hand wasn’t stroking Draco’s hair any more. It was pulling it. And Draco’s hands by his sides were almost scratching him, tearing at the fabric. They separated for a moment, gasping in huge mouthfuls of air, but didn’t take a step back. They stared at each other, panting, and mutually decided, just with a look, that this wasn’t enough. Too much waiting. Too many things they would need to talk about if they stopped right now.

And Draco, Harry realised, had a steely-eyed look of determination. A feeling Harry shared.

“Bedroom?” Draco rasped.

“Upstairs,” Harry answered, already taking him by hand to lead him. Along the way, they both lost their ties and shoes. It was almost a miracle that they reached the bedroom, in fact: Draco had stopped to bite and lick at Harry’s neck in the staircase, and it was all Harry could do not to throw him on the floor right there and then and forgo the bedroom altogether. But he wanted it all, and more, and fucking on a staircase would only make things more uncomfortable.

They slammed the door shut behind them and Harry locked it with a thought. The house, by now, was so used to him that it obeyed simple commands like that. He didn’t want Kreacher to burst in unannounced, after all.

He let Draco threw him onto the bed – thankfully Kreacher had made it – and welcomed his weight on himself a second later. Draco tore at his clothes with no finesse, just attacking them without any coherent plan for removing them efficiently, and Harry, who by now was almost entirely out of breath, was no help either.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Draco exclaimed in frustration, still having an argument with the many, many buttons of Harry’s ceremonial robes. One second later, he reached for his wand and Vanished their clothes.

Both their clothes.

All of them.

For a second, they just stared. Just skin, and skin, and skin, and it was all so warm, and pale, and so good and soft to touch. Draco’s chest was leaner than his, and he had almost no visible hair, so it was like a creamy, slender expanse of canvas ready to be painted. He immediately started to bite and bruise at the collarbone, which looked far too pristine for his tastes. Then he moved to the neck, using his hands to trace patterns on Draco’s nipples, and enjoying each and every soft gasp and moan he managed to extract.

He had only understood what he felt that same day, but as he licked the sharp angles of Draco’s jaw and shivered, he realised, this was nothing new. His mind might not have known it, but his body had other plans, and none of those plans seemed like an improvisation. He must have wanted this, unconsciously, for a long, long time.

“Lube?” Draco gasped. Harry rose his head sharply.

“First drawer,” he panted. “Are you…”

“If you don’t fuck me tonight, I feel I will go insane,” was all the reply he got before the bottle was tossed into his waiting hands. He found it even harder to breathe, after Draco’s statement.

They still hadn’t touched each other’s cocks. Harry took Draco in hand for a moment, weighing him up, testing how different it felt than wanking himself. It wasn’t that different, though Draco was a bit leaner in that respect, too. He mentally stored away every sound Draco was making, every tiny little gasp, every broken moan and barely contained whimper. He waited until Draco had relaxed a bit to breach him with a finger.

“Harry!”

“Good?” he asked, looking at his scrunched-up nose. How could he be cute at a moment like this?

“Good.” He slowly pumped his finger in an out, monitoring signs of pain, or regret, and finding only acceptance and loving glances in return.

He slid down and took him in his mouth just as he pushed in a second finger. From then, things became a little messy: he sucked Draco’s cock at a different pace than his fingers, and Draco was thrashing wildly, anchoring his hands in Harry’s hair and pulling hard.

“Ok, now, now, now,” Draco hissed, his back arching off the bed. “Now, before it’s too late.”

Harry removed his fingers and lubed himself up.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Wh-of course you can kiss me, idiot.”

He pushed in at the same time as his tongue, and for a moment, his entire existence shrunk to that feeling, that possessive sensation curling up his spine. With dark thoughts, he bottomed out and thought about nothing but sensations, a tongue, a clenching heat, a point of connection that felt more significant than the word ‘fucking’.

This wasn’t fucking. This was years and years of tension, of dissatisfaction, of frustration, all wrapped up into a friend, a lover, a former enemy, a man who could understand him at a deeper level than anyone else could.

“Are you mine?” he couldn’t help but ask, a bit ashamed of the possessive streak, and of the childish question.

“I’ve been yours for longer than I care to confess,” Draco answered in a breathless chuckle, throwing his head back in pleasure and allowing Harry to latch himself onto his neck. He inhaled deeply, flexing his hips in small, circular motions, and coming to terms with the fact that this was happening.

“Mine,” he muttered into Draco’s skin, giving the first real thrust and enjoying the gasp that followed.

“Yours,” Draco agreed, angling his hips higher to take him even deeper.

Harry started in earnest and time stopped mattering. He fucked in and out like a man dying of thirst going after water, and let all coherent thoughts slip away.

“Yes, yes, yes…” Draco chanted as they both neared the end.

“Darling…” he murmured on Draco’s lips, before capturing them again. Draco nipped at him, and he tasted a bit of blood on his tongue. It only spurred him further.

“I want _you_ …”

“You have me.”

They came a few minutes apart from each other, Harry taking a while longer, caught up as he was in seeing stars explode behind Draco’s irises, and the delicious flush spreading from his chest.

They stayed like that for a while, on top of one another, catching their breath, until Draco sighed and made for his wand.

He cleaned them up rapidly and efficiently, and then returned to Harry’s chest, using it as a pillow.

“Who knew,” he said. “All we needed was a dirty, old man.”

Harry laughed loudly and held him tight.

**Author's Note:**

> My life as a fanfic writer is effing weird. I spend literal years writing nothing, not even a grocery list, and then in two days I get two fics done. I'm weird.  
> The origin of this fic is even weirder, I was scrolling facebook, and there was an advertisement about a charity auction. Five seconds later, I found a dating app advertisement. My brain decided this was a good idea and then the next thing I know I'm posting this.  
> I liked writing it, though! As usual, I mixed angst and humour (I don't think I could write anything but that particular mix) and I had a lot of fun, but it also gave me a lot of emotions. I love a lot of fandoms and a lot of ship, but when it comes to these two, they always have a special place in my heart, and I always end up writing about them instead of all the other ships I have.  
> I reeeally hope someone reads this, and that you like it. If you do, please, don't be shy with comments and kudos, especially comments, I effing love me some comments.  
> And, as usual, please pardon any mistakes, as English is not my first language. 
> 
> Zuz <3


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